


inside

by rhysgore



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Dacryphilia, M/M, MGSrarepairweek, Snuff, Wound Fucking, slight accidental necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 07:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10239527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysgore/pseuds/rhysgore
Summary: Watching Jack topple backwards with an expression of mindless shock plastered on his face was nothing short of satisfying.





	

**Author's Note:**

> day 7 of mgs rarepair week: death im sorry im sorry im sorry im

Watching Jack topple backwards with an expression of mindless shock plastered on his face was nothing short of satisfying. His body, so graceful only seconds before, rendered unsteady with shock as his hands came to grasp at his lower stomach- at the red hole Armstrong had torn in his armor, exposing the wiring and artificial muscle and the proxy of blood vessels underneath.

 

“So you can still bleed, huh?” Armstrong sneered, pushing up his glasses. Jack didn’t reply with words, exactly, glaring and growling as he got into a combat stance again. He was probably regretting having regained the ability to feel pain, arms trembling slightly as he raised them.

 

He might as well have given up. Weaponless, devoid of allies, and bleeding- if he’d been willing to surrender, Armstrong would have let him live. In custody, stripped of the ability to contact his friends, and forced to watch the wheels he’d desperately tried to stop spin into motion- but  _ alive,  _ at least.

 

Stupid.

 

Armstrong let Jack scratch at him, claws that could have disemboweled another man glancing off his nanomachine-enhanced skin. It was amusing to watch him continue to struggle- fighting to his last breath, as his nature dictated. But Armstrong had other, more important things to do than stand there and dull the cyborg’s nails.

 

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?” In a blur of movement, he caught Jack’s right wrist in his hand, and  _ squeezed. _ The metal resisted him for a few seconds before Armstrong heard the sound of something bending, ripping, crumpling, giving in under his hand, accompanied by Jack letting out a harsh sound, pawing uselessly at Armstrong’s forearm.

 

_ “Let- go- of- me,” _ he gasped, trying to pull his way out of the iron grip. “Let  _ go-” _ His words were cut off as Armstrong threw him to the ground and planted a foot on his chest, still holding his crushed, useless wrist. Armstrong  _ pulled,  _ and Jack practically howled at the pain and the harsh sound of metal rending as his arm was torn out of its socket, wires snapping, sparking, limb reduced to nothing but a useless dead weight leaking red fluid. “Oh god-”

 

Jack’s movements were getting weaker by the second, the pain and bleeding crippling him as much as the loss of a limb. His body bucked and thrashed, but Armstrong stomped on his chest plate, grinding his heel in. Eyeing Jack’s feet, spongy heels designed to be able to grip like hands, he bent, picking up one of those powerful thighs and pulling it likewise until he heard the popping of artificial joints, and Jack’s one hope of running was cruelly taken away from him.

 

The fight was practically over. Even a miracle wouldn’t help fix that arm, or the leg, or the hole in Jack’s stomach. But it wasn’t enough.

 

He wanted to see Jack cry.

 

Lifting his foot, he reached down, and grabbed Jack by the handful of wires still just barely connecting his arm to his body, yanking him up to prop him against the side of EXCELSIUS’ control pod. As much pain as he was in, Jack’s expression was the same as it had been- stubborn defiance. As if he still believed that he could do something to change the course of the fight.

 

“This is your last chance, son. Just give up, and we’ll fix you up good as new. Give you a shiny new coat of paint as well- you personally opened up a few vacancies at Desperado that we’re going to need filled.”

 

Jack heaved in a shuddering breath, and spat on his face. “Fuck you. I’d rather  _ die  _ than help you.”

 

Armstrong’s own face clouded over, grimace stretching across his features. “Suit yourself,” he hissed, reaching for Jack’s abdomen, finding the hole and ripping it open further.

 

The expression on Jack’s face as he tried not to react, eyes squeezing shut, teeth grinding, head banging on the metal behind him, was nothing short of erotic, and Armstrong was seized with a desire to ruin, to destroy, to  _ violate _ Jack as thoroughly as he was able to. He crowded closer, digging his fingers into the exposed muscle, hands slick with blood and cock throbbing as he twisted the metaphorical knife.

 

If Jack wouldn’t work for him willingly, he’d have to die. But there was no reason Armstrong couldn’t indulge a bit before that happened. His face twisted into a smirk as he reached for his pants, making sure Jack could see and hear as he undid the button and zipper, relishing in the blatant, undisguised disgust on Jack’s face as he pulled his cock out.

 

“If you put that a-anywhere near my mouth, I’ll bite it off,” Jack hissed, sneering. His still-functioning hand came up to Armstrong’s shoulder in an attempt to push him away, clawing pathetically. Part of Armstrong genuinely wondered if Jack would be able to make good on that threat, imagining him choking on cock artificially stiffened with nanomachines.

 

But that was a moot point.

 

“It’s not going in your mouth, Jack.” 

 

Jack looked confused for all of two seconds before Armstrong was adjusting his body, shifting his lower half forwards. He gripped the shaft of his cock, giving it a few jerks to get it fully hard, before lining it up with the hole he’d torn in Jack’s stomach.

 

The sensation when he pushed in was odd, but the pained, nauseous expression on Jack’s face more than made up for it. He was fairly warm inside, the hum of his artificial systems providing a pleasant vibrating sensation along the shaft of Armstrong’s cock, and the sloppy, wet sounds that Jack’s body made when Armstrong started to fuck his stomach with shallow thrusts were music to his ears.

 

“You sick fuck,” Jack said, voice hoarse and weak, eyes squeezing shut. His hand dug into Armstrong’s back, not trying to hurt, but to find purchase, any semblance of an anchor. “You’re not… going to get away with this…”

 

“And I suppose you still think you can stop me?” Armstrong grinned, near manic as he buried himself as far as he could go in Jack, chasing the pleasurable sensation of the facsimile of internal organs clenching around him, desperately trying to rid Jack’s body of the unwanted intrusion. “You’re not a  _ warrior _ anymore, Jack. For as much time as you have left, you’re my personal cocksleeve.”

 

He’d never had a victory as  _ complete  _ as this one. The high from it- from crushing Jack’s ideals, his body- was as good as an aphrodisiac, spurring him on faster, harder, but in the end it was looking at Jack’s face that did it, seeing the fine, wet sheen of a tear track on his cheek. He’d crushed Jack’s resolve as well, it seemed, and it was that thought that made him come, fingers digging into Jack’s one usable leg and side hard enough that he heard the armor plates cracking.

 

When he pulled out, he noted that his cum was making Jack look like he was bleeding pink. The thought drew a chuckle out of him as he sat back, pulling a cigar out of his pocket and lighting it, taking a deep drag.

 

“Did the earth move for you too?” Armstrong grinned, blowing out a puff of smoke. Jack didn’t respond. “It’s alright. First time’s not the same for everyone, you know? Right?”

 

There was still silence from the cyborg. With a frown, Armstrong leaned forwards, gripping Jack’s metal chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing Jack to look at him. Those eyes were glassy, expressionless, his mouth slack and dumb, and he put up no resistance as he was manhandled. He’d probably died a few minutes ago, and Armstrong hadn’t even noticed.

 

Leaning forwards a little further, Armstrong licked the tear track off of Jack’s face, savoring the salty taste. He opened Jack’s mouth, and put his cigarette out on that lolling pink tongue before standing up and tucking himself back into his pants.

  
There was still work left to do.


End file.
